


When I Lay Low

by matchsticks_p (matchsticks)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, mildly non-linear, warning for minor reference to sexual coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchsticks/pseuds/matchsticks_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier wasn't just an asset, he was <i>the</i> asset: the highest-ranking officer in all active field operations and the only one considered truly non-expendable by Hydra.</p><p>Bucky has trouble adjusting to being a team player, but he's trying. Or, the Avengers think he's trying. Sometimes it's hard to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Lay Low

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by all the scenes in CA2 where The Winter Soldier stalked around like a boss ass bitch and got things handed to him without having to ask, [like this](http://31.media.tumblr.com/6d4787aee53ae656b329d3b813a1354c/tumblr_mv6mdcr4DQ1r15jqko1_400.gif). Thank you to [Adi Rotynd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/adi_rotynd/pseuds/adi_rotynd) for everything.

They're somewhere in the Korean Demilitarized Zone when Bucky forgets his manners, just briefly. 

They're under moderate to heavy fire from people who are definitely not North Korean soldiers, unless that hideous skull and tentacles insignia has become the new fashion around these parts. Despite the bullets kicking up dust increasingly close to their feet, Steve and Tony are having a loud argument about whether their presence in the DMZ is a sign of continuing American imperialism in East Asia. 

"—Because I did not get brought back just to help my country keep making the same stupid mistakes! We have no business telling the Koreans how to run their country!" Steve yells, throwing up his shield at the last minute to block a round of artillery. 

"If you would just _listen_ for _two seconds_ , you would know that we've been called in to help with a HYDRA problem that has nothing to do with the Koreans! Either of the Koreans!" Tony yells back.

"Then why was there a fully equipped _American_ military base just ready and waiting to receive us?"

Above them, Sam makes a noise that could technically be classified as a squawk, if it weren't for the fact that he would get mad at anybody who called it that. He makes a not-squawk and flies out of the way of several guided missiles, his movements intricate and graceful despite the narrowly-avoided danger. Bucky decides it's time for him to make the Hydra agents stop shooting.

Wordlessly, without looking or even thinking about it, he holds his left arm out and waits for the weight of a sniper rifle to be put into it. After a few seconds, he blinks at his empty hand in surprise.

"Where's my damn gun?" he snarls, his voice pure Hydra authority, and Steve startles out of his argument with a look like a deer caught in the headlights. 

"What the hell's your problem?" Tony demands, but Bucky is already moving on and grabbing what he needs out of the bag of equipment Clint had been charged with carrying. 

He mutters under his breath about Clint's complete incompetence as an underling as he picks off his targets one by one without fail. Clint looks at him with a serene smile and says, "Hmm? Sorry, I wasn't listening," before taking the last kill shot for himself, bow and arrow as accurate as Bucky's rifle although not as far-reaching. 

The momentary break in people shooting at them gives Bucky time to clear his head, and he comes back to himself. He should probably apologize.

But then Hydra's backup comes, and they bring bigger numbers and better weapons with them. They have to start fighting for real and even Steve and Tony put their slapstick double act routine away to concentrate. In the heat of battle, everyone forgets about Bucky's lapse. Everyone except Bucky.

*

Six months after Steve and Sam found him, Bucky was finally cleared for return to duty by a panel of five handpicked psychiatrists. He decided to move into Avengers Tower, and then he promptly got confused.

He had been told, excessively and recurrently and in no uncertain terms, that they were all _equals_ in a _team_ where nobody was treated like an _asset_ and everyone was a _friend_. And yet FRIDAY still had to do whatever he asked like he was still in charge. 

There were a lot of things the Winter Soldier never had to think about. He was designed to do one thing and one thing only: kill. And he was the best at it. Doing anything else was a waste of his time and resources. He never had to squander any mental energy on menial tasks that were beneath him, like preparing food, picking clothing, or cleaning the filth off his corporeal flesh. And now FRIDAY, the woman in the walls, made sure a piping hot plate of breakfast was on the table every morning. She kept his wardrobe stocked with shirts and trousers in his size without him ever asking, knew when to replace jackets torn beyond repair. She even drew a steamy bath for him daily at the appointed hour. True, she failed to scrub his body as the Winter Soldier's personal attendants had done for him, and Bucky had asked about it once but the look on Tony Stark's face made him not want to ask again. But still, she kept the temperature of the water exactly as he liked it to a tenth of a degree.

"Congratulations on a spectacular performance today, Sergeant Barnes," FRIDAY said to him after a confusing day.

Bucky knew he had done well. He had held his breath and squeezed the trigger firmly and steadily. A moving target from half a mile away, and he had gotten a clean headshot. That perfect shot helped save a busload of schoolchildren, but that fact barely registered on the periphery of his concern. It was a good thing, he knew, because it was part of the mission objectives. He was still the best at this. The Winter Soldier would always be the best at this.

And now, after such a success, he knew he was supposed to be rewarded. But all the others had retired to their own rooms to tend to their wounds and get what rest they could before they were due for a debriefing. He would have to take matters into his own hands. 

"FRIDAY, can you have Sam Wilson delivered to my room? Undressed, preferably—that'll make things quicker."

She failed to react for a long moment. He hoped he wouldn't have to discipline her for insubordination—mostly because he would have no idea where to begin finding her physical form. He was about to ask her to confirm when she finally said, "Of course, sir."

Shortly thereafter, a heavy knock sounded at his door. He opened it to find Sam, disappointingly fully clothed.

"What the fuck," Sam said.

"How do you want to do this?" Bucky asked, because he did like Sam an awful lot and he didn't want it to be bad for him.

"How do I want to do _what_?"

"Did FRIDAY not tell you?"

"All FRIDAY said to me was, and I quote, 'Sergeant Barnes requests the presence of your nude body.' So. I repeat, what the fuck."

Now that Sam was standing in front of him, Bucky was no longer so certain things about how things like hierarchy and chain of command were supposed to work. "Didn't I do a good job today?"

Sam blinked.

"I mean, out in the field. Covering your six. I neutralized the hostage situation before it even really turned into a situation. Wasn't that exactly what I was supposed to do?"

"It was great," Sam said. "You were great. More than great." But he was still frowning like he had no idea what was going on.

"When I do an especially good job, I usually get a...prize."

The furrow between Sam's brows deepened. Bucky opened his mouth to explain further, but Sam cut him off with a raised hand motion. "I need a second," he said, and so Bucky waited patiently, and after several seconds had passed he still didn't look any more likely to shed all his clothes and service Bucky. Instead, he said, "Is...um, is that how it worked in Hydra? Did they give you people to work over as a reward? Did they tell you that was a good thing?"

It was Bucky's turn to frown.

Sam looked at him with eyes unwavering, wide and steady like there was nothing else he wanted to look at. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, so sincere that Bucky finally understood the words he had been parroting back to the psychiatrists all this time. This wasn't a mission—this was his life.

"I don't want to talk about it, actually," he said. "And I'm really sorry about the mix-up. I just get—I forget sometimes. How to do things right."

"That's alright," Sam said, reaching out to clasp his shoulder, telegraphing his movements nice and slow so Bucky could stop him if he wanted to. "You're alright."

"I know you're not just a prize— _people_ aren't just prizes. I know that. But can I kiss you anyway?"

Sam's smile widened. "Aren't you going to invite me in first?"

Bucky stepped aside and opened the door wider, tipping his head and gesturing into his quarters with a sweep of his arm. 

"If this is a trick..." Sam warned, but Bucky could tell he was just teasing and it made something in his chest go startlingly warm.

He closed the door behind Sam so he would have a solid surface to push Sam up against when he leaned in to kiss him.

*

Bucky leans back in the chair, right hand drumming no particular rhythm against his thigh, left hand turned up palm to the ceiling while Tony solders something inside the arm. Steve is hovering near his four o'clock, watching with a close eye, and Bucky is as relaxed as he can realistically make himself. Steve has his back, no one is in imminent danger, and Tony is making the unpleasant delay in his fine motor control go away. Everything is fine.

The concentration it takes to keep his mind blank eventually bores him, and he spots a newspaper on the messy desk behind Tony when his eyes wander. Someone else must have left it there—he's never seen Tony consume news in a non-electronic format. He gestures to it with his free hand and says, "Could you pass me that?"

Tony's eyes flick up only just long enough for Bucky to see that he's been acknowledged, and then he reaches behind himself without looking, blindly feeling for the paper and knocking a few rubber band balls and probably priceless tiny prototypes off the desk before finding it and plopping it onto Bucky's lap. 

"Thanks," Bucky says.

Tony shushes him and goes back applying a pen torch to the delicate wires inside the arm.

Bucky flips through the international news, the local news, and the stocks. He makes a mental note to ask Sam to explain why the Kuwaiti dinar is the strongest currency in the world right now. He decides he's thirsty. 

"Could you get me some water?"

Tony looks up again, this time for a lot longer. "Sure," he says, narrowing eyes briefly. "Still or sparkling?"

"Just a regular glass from the tap is fine."

Tony turns to command one of his creepy automaton machines to bring Bucky his water, which Bucky takes without further comment. Tony narrows his eyes one more time before turning his torch back on. Bucky sips from his glass.

He can immediately feel when Tony's finished, because his hand just feels right again. His elbow and his three left-most fingers no longer feel like separate entities tenuously connected by a very staticky line. He flexes his fingers into an experimental fist. The movement is silent, without even the usual innocuous hum from before. 

"Good," he tells Tony. He has done a good job for Bucky. "Can I also get you to look at my computer? There's something strange about the email display settings and I can't figure it out. Since I'm here anyway."

Tony's mouth flattens into a line. "Okay, but only—"

"And also one of my boots needs re-lacing."

"—because I can fix it faster than any of the IT guys you should actually be asking." Tony's brain catches up with the rest of what Bucky has just said. "Wait. You do know I'm not your maid, right?"

Behind him, Steve makes a curious gurgle in the back of his throat. Bucky turns to check if everything is okay, and Steve's face is so red it's almost purple, but his facial indicators say 'mirth' rather than 'lethal asphyxiation.'

"I wasn't 100% sure," Bucky admits. "You do provide for...most of our needs." At this point it's hard even for Bucky himself to tell if he's serious or just joking. It's nice to see Steve happy, or at least amused, which is a very close cousin of happiness.

"I consider it a business expense," Tony says through clenched teeth. 

Steve comes forward to grip the back of Bucky's chair, clinging to it like he needs its support to remain upright and looking like he might genuinely be dying. "Oh my god," he gasps, "oh my god."

"You," Tony says, pointing a finger at Steve, "shut it. And you," he says, aiming his finger at Bucky, "get the fuck out of my workshop before I put an electrostatic discharge device in your arm that tases Wilson every time you try to touch him."

"Hey now," Steve says warningly. "Play nice." He claps a reassuring hand on Bucky's shoulder and says in a volume pitched so only he can hear, "No harm done. Tony's ego can stand to get knocked down a few pegs anyway, it's good for him."

Bucky nods. It's not always the end of the world when he gets confused. That much he can understand.

*

Being in an active hot zone makes it easiest to forget where he is and who he's with. The sound of people screaming, the smell of gunpowder, the feel of the air crackling in the wake of bullets whizzing past—they take him back to a more primal place. A place where everybody is his to command and Natalya is his only equal. 

Having her there is grounding, in a way. They move together in concert, knowing each other's movements in a way that the other Avengers will never be able to catch up with. He advances, and she covers him with suppressive fire. She moves, and he does the same for her. They can anticipate where the other will be without even turning to look. It's in their blood—or, probably more accurately, it's irrevocably drilled into their subconscious and they'll never be able to get rid of the muscle memory even if they wanted to.

Sometimes, it's so intense that it's almost like an out of body experience. 

And sometimes, fighting with Steve at his side feels like that too.

Fighting next to Steve is a different kind of remembering, through a glass darkly, like trying to make out an object while his eyes are wrapped in thin gauze.

Even with Steve there, even with Natalya—or maybe because of Natalya—Bucky will forget at crucial moments and snarl orders at his team. Not casual orders. Not ones agreed upon ahead of time because he's been designated the point man of the manoeuvre. Not in his own voice. Orders, in the voice of someone who not only expects to be listened to but who knows for a fact that anybody who fails to listen is disposable and in fact will be disposed of.

Sam must have been a really good pararescueman. Bucky can tell because Sam's body still responds automatically to that commanding officer voice when Bucky barks at him. 

"You, in the sky: ambush the left flank and clear the rendezvous point," the Winter Soldier orders tersely, and there's no hesitance in the strong line of Sam's body silhouetted against the bright hard sunshine. He obeys instantly.

It helps snap Bucky out of things, helps bring him back into the moment. It reminds Bucky that he shouldn't be doing this, that he's not The Asset anymore, he's not an asset. He is an individual in a team of allies, a person who doesn't like seeing Sam on autopilot because he likes seeing Sam as himself. 

It worries him that maybe Sam doesn't like seeing Bucky on autopilot either, that this is how it makes Sam feel when he forgets, but then there's another volley of gunshots, and this time it's followed by laser shots, and there's no time to think about it or dwell on how he can fail Sam less. It'll have to be another conversation for another day. 

Sam clears the rendezvous point, because he's amazing and even without superpowers he's the most superhuman of them all. Bucky falls back and lets Steve and Tony take the tactical lead, trusting them to get them all out of there alive.

*

And sometimes, he can even joke about it.

In fact, he and Thor ] have what people nowadays apparently call a "running gag" about it. 

They have their coffee over a shared table after a hard night of very little sleep, and they lament the lack of serving wenches in the Tower. FRIDAY stays judiciously silent on the matter. 

"Where I come from, warriors never have to lift a single finger to do menial tasks. We are honoured by the battlefield, and not demeaned by having to fetch our own drinks," Thor says, smacking his lips over the blackest coffee Bucky has ever seen. He didn't even know it could get that dark. 

"Demeaning," Bucky agrees, playing along. "That's the word for it. Utterly demeaning. Our hands are meant for weapons, not cookware. Or, god forbid, _toothbrushes_."

Thor points a thick index finger directly at Bucky's face. "Yes. Exactly." He drains the last bitter dregs from his mug before tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. It shatters on the pristine tiles. A motorized cleaning apparatus immediately senses this disturbance in the cleanliness of the floor and glides over to them, sweeping away the shards of broken ceramic and whirring angrily to itself. Thor and Bucky watch it thoughtfully.

"As I was saying," Thor continues once the robot has carried away all evidence of Thor's destructive tendencies, "wenches. Stark should look into the possibility to hiring wenches, at least for the serving of meals and assisting with our daily ablutions. I understand and applaud the Midgardian concept of gender equality. We could easily have both female and male wenches. And Stark can afford to compensate them very fairly."

Honestly, Bucky isn't always sure that Thor is one hundred percent joking. 

Before they can get too deeply into the matter of how many wenches Tony could realistically afford to hire, Sam and Steve walk in, still sweaty from their morning run. Well, Sam is sweaty—Steve looks as pristine as a good little schoolboy on his way to Sunday mass. Sam, meanwhile, sports a drenched v-shaped stain down the front of his ratty old t-shirt, moisture glistens at his temples and gathers at the ends of his eyebrows, and his basketball shorts ride a little bit lower on his hips with every tired step he takes. He's perfect.

"We stopped by that bakery you like on our way back," Sam says, lightly shaking the cardboard box he's carrying. He flips open the lid to show Bucky the selection of sugary pastries inside.

"Thanks, doll," Bucky says, and sometimes he worries that the smile he reserves for Sam is the most genuine thing about him. Sam smiles back and squeezes his hand lightly at the nape of Bucky's neck before turning to set the box on the breakfast table for everyone to enjoy. The movement means he's bent over with his ass to Bucky, and behind his back Bucky deadpans, "You were saying about wenches?" to Thor.

Thor practically roars with hearty laughter, slapping the top of the table and causing an entire fleet of cleaner robots to gather pre-emptively, readying themselves for things to get broken.

Steve clears his throat sternly and says, "Gentlemen, I really don't think this is appropriate," and more than anything else the disapproval in his voice makes Bucky fall into laughter as well. There are moments when he's not at all confused about where he is, who his friends are, what it means to be equals—and this is one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from a lyric in "Boss Ass Bitch (Remix)" by Nicki Minaj/PTAF--the full lyric goes "when I lay low, bitches be safe and sound." Thank you very much for reading. Sometimes I write extra little snippets on my "[fic adjacent](http://riseagainphoenix.tumblr.com/tagged/fic-adjacent)" tag on tumblr, and I always welcome feedback or daydreaming about Sam Wilson.


End file.
